


A Small Thank You: Greg's POV

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cigars, Greg's perceptive, If you've read the other one you know what happens, M/M, POV Greg, Whiskey & Scotch, actually you can probably guess, but a bit hesitant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-06-15 14:37:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15415155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Greg's POV of TheUniverseIsRarelySoLazy's 'A Small Thank You', whose description reads: 'Mycroft invites Greg to an evening of cigars and spirits as a small thank you for looking after Sherlock. The evening can only end one way...'Can be read as a standalone; much better if you read that POV first (link in A/N)!





	A Small Thank You: Greg's POV

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheUniverseIsRarelySoLazy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheUniverseIsRarelySoLazy/gifts).



> When I read 'A Small Thank You' I could see Greg's perspective so clearly, and TheUniverseIsRarelySoLazy was lovely enough to say yes, go ahead and write it.  
> I strongly suggest reading [A Small Thank You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15307530) first, for the cigar/whiskey information if nothing else.  
> Enjoy <3

They always meet in public. It’s the single biggest clue that Mycroft isn’t interested in anything more than their slightly relaxed professional relationship, much to Greg’s regret. Their initial meetings – kidnappings, really – took place in dark warehouses with all the film noir enigma Mycroft could muster. Once he realised Greg was neither intimidated nor open to bribery, he began the courtesy of letting the detective know in advance when he will be picked up.

 _Small gains_ , Greg thinks.

By now, they are meeting semi-regularly for formal dinners at restaurants Mycroft picks. Greg never sees a bill, or a price for that matter. He got over his issues with it the first time they ate at Granada; their crème brulee was so incredible he’ll never be able to order it anywhere else.

After a little awkwardness, they’ve established a routine. Mycroft picks him up, and they eat together, talking about Sherlock, drifting onto other topics depending on Mycroft’s state of mind. Greg has learned when to ask questions and when to sit quietly, covertly watching the man across from him fight with himself. He can see the relaxation as they speak, as Mycroft makes small jokes for his ears only. As soon as silence falls he reverts, the tensing of the shoulders and the frustration with himself evident. Greg wonders if maybe…but he will never ask. Privacy is clearly paramount for Mycroft, and if he can’t respect that, Greg has the distinct impression he’ll be out on his ear.

As he should be.

So they float along. Greg rescues Sherlock and admires his brother, knowing the former action is authorising the latter. Not that it matters to Greg – he likes Sherlock, for all his failings. Occasional dinners with Mycroft are a bonus. Greg knows his desire (he won’t call it pining) is holding him back from finding someone else, but he can’t shake the feeling there might be something else there, if they can just sneak past the formal façade Mycroft insists on maintaining.

When it happens it takes him by surprise.

A quiet request at the end of a perfunctory telephone conversation about Sherlock, and Greg finds himself standing at the door of a private residence in a posh neighbourhood. He wasn’t paying attention on the way over here – the car will take him home as surely as it picked him up – but now he stands in the street for a moment, drinking in the quiet neighbourhood, considering what this evening might mean.

It might mean nothing at all. But there were too many maybes in Greg’s head, and the possibility of something shifting was almost palpable. He feels a little reckless, like the universe is pushing him gently, begging him to take this tenuous offer and turn it into something.

With a deep breath he mounts the steps and rings the doorbell. The seconds waiting are interminable, but finally, Mycroft opens the door. His hair is amazing, Greg’s brain thinks immediately, latching onto the detail to the exclusion of all else. It curls, as though free of whatever product Mycroft uses to tame it. Greg’s fingers twitch, but he looks into Mycroft’s eyes instead and a genuine smile comes to his face.

Their greetings are easy enough, and Greg’s stomach swoops when Mycroft agrees to call him by his name. He’s been working on that one for months. The smile is still on his lips as Mycroft turns to show him through a huge formal entranceway. It feels impersonal as a castle, full of old portrait paintings and yellow lighting. Nothing at all like what he imagines Mycroft would choose. He bites back questions, not wanting to sound nervous. Mycroft must sense it, though, because he explains.

“The house has been in the family for a long time. It has now fallen to me. I have changed little of the décor in the hallways…But this is my favourite room, so most of the things in here are actually mine.”

“Mhmm, I can tell,” Greg says, allowing his eyes to roam over the room they’ve just entered. It’s far more as he imagined Mycroft; all old books, vintage record player, leather sofa. Something is off, and it takes him a moment to see it – no telly. He can’t help commenting on it, thrilling again at Mycroft’s admission that he prefers the quiet. He smiles, holding Mycroft’s eyes, and a smile just almost breaks in return. _Almost_ , Greg thinks to himself. _You’ve almost relaxed enough._

“So you said you invited me for a thank you?”

“And you accepted, without even knowing what I had in mind,” Mycroft replies.

The response comes automatically, Greg finding his hand landing on Mycroft’s arm for a beat, cataloguing the topography of bone and muscle under his suit. No tie, though, and top button open…Greg swallows as Mycroft looks away. Didn’t even notice what he was wearing, Greg berates himself. _You are fucking gone on this guy, aren’t you?_

Another light comment, and Greg laughs, ignoring the subtle innuendo of Mycroft’s words. He finds his fingers squeezing gently, but Mycroft pulls away, offering a slightly stuttered explanation for their presence this evening.

They talk about Mycroft’s collection of cigars and high shelf liquor, Greg knowing his response is a bit effusive but unable to stop himself. The shy explanation of Mycroft’s obvious passion was enchanting; Greg feels honoured to be allowed in to glimpse the details of such a fiercely guarded personal life. Mycroft quickly justifies his expensive habit, and Greg smiles, affection bleeding through despite his effort to hold it back.

Mycroft is visibly relaxed here in his own sitting room, though odd moments seem to startle him. He speaks with the quiet confidence of someone with a deep knowledge of his topic, and Greg finds himself smiling in amusement as Mycroft earnestly urges him to follow his palate when choosing cigars. Mycroft’s expression is complex as he studies Greg’s face, a strange flitter of longing and determination.

Greg ignores it, listening to him talk about their first cigar/drink combination. Their banter is light again, a gentle tease from Greg, acceptance of Mycroft’s suggestion. Watching Mycroft’s long fingers extend a bottle for his perusal is distracting to say the least and Greg barely notices the label.

He’s smoked enough cigars to know how to light one properly, but the offer of Mycroft helping him is too good to refuse. It’s a chance to watch Mycroft’s fingers at work, to sit close, watch his mouth; worth every second as he toasts his cigar, feeling Mycroft closer than ever before he moves to sit at the other end of the sofa.

When he’s finally able to draw his first breath, Greg leans back, enjoying the subtle tang of the cigar. His eyes are closed but he can feel Mycroft’s gaze on him. After a slow count of five Greg opens his eyes, seeing Mycroft reach for his glass and he copies, grinning as they toast and sip.

“This is brilliant,” Greg says, the words slipping out unedited. “I knew you’d be brilliant at this.”

Christ, that was a bit much, he thought to himself. Mycroft’s gone a bit pink, and he’s looking uncomfortable – dial it back, Lestrade. Even if that whisper of possibility is still there, they have to take it slow. These things are about more than the right place and booze. The timing is important, and they aren’t there yet. Greg closes his eyes again, sipping at his whiskey. The promise of more grows in the quiet, and he smiles as Mycroft refills his glass well before the cigar is done.

The small cigars do not take long to finish, and Greg feels the gentle warmth of the whiskey flowing through him as they abandon the stumps. Mycroft has relaxed too, the quiet somehow working for him here. Perhaps it’s the private setting, or the alcohol. Greg doesn’t want to flatter himself that it’s the company, though it is certainly working for him.

He’s enthusiastic when Mycroft suggests they move on to another course. The evening is growing softer, and he can feel them mellowing together. He knows his eyes are brighter as he compliments Mycroft again; he fancies the man has a shadow of understanding that the excitement is for him.

The idea makes him bold, and he opts for both suggested liquors. The bottle makes him balk a little; it’s the kind of thing they lock away behind glass at the off-licence. Mycroft seems quite anxious at his joking questioning about the price; only his accidental use of his private nickname saved the day.

“I’m just teasing you, Myc. I’m thankful for this. Really, I am.”

“Myc?” Delicate eyebrows rise at the endearment and Greg’s heart stops for a second, feeling the blush rise up his face, ears burning.

“Sorry.” Greg’s heart pounds as he waits for Mycroft’s verdict.

“No…don’t be. I’ll allow it…for tonight.”

Greg’s heart is still pounding, though for a different reason now. It’s the first real, tangible evidence that Mycroft is prepared for their relationship to change. Greg watches Mycroft pour the next whiskey, acutely aware of the movements close to him. He’s cautiously intrigued, wondering what else might change tonight. Will Mycroft make a move? The smoke and whiskey are a potent combination, and he feels his own inhibitions loosening again.

He sips at the whiskey, complimenting Mycroft again, before leaning back, consciously turning toward Mycroft, resisting the urge to slide along the leather towards him. Drawing deeply on the new cigar, Greg exhales, tilting his head towards the ceiling, watching the white smoke curl around itself as it rises. As the air clears he lowers his eyes, catching Mycroft’s. They are unguarded, longing and affection sitting clearly there for Greg to see. He smiles, the confirmation of his earlier suspicion settling gently in his heart, calming his worries.

It will happen. If he is patient, and gentle, it will happen. So he smiles and talks to Mycroft, drinking his whiskey, touching casually as often as he dares. As they both shift their weight, bodies move closer and closer on the sofa. He can feel Mycroft working to be open with him, to answer his questions; in return Greg tries not to pry, keeping the topics light. Still, as they share jokes and the second cigars burn low, he can see Mycroft’s nerves grow. Is he planning on making a move? Perhaps Greg should wait, see what Mycroft is comfortable with. He resolves to wait until the end of the evening, give Mycroft space.

As he’s still convincing himself to be patient, Mycroft opens his mouth and blows Greg’s resolution out of the water.

“Join me for a bit of fresh air before we try something unconventional?”

His voice leaves no doubt in Greg’s mind about his desires. It’s light but teasing, and Greg would swear his eyes flicked south to Greg’s mouth. He knows his reaction is visible and in his haste to cover it he stands too quickly. The room swirls, tilting until something grips his forearm, anchoring him…It is Mycroft. Standing close, Greg’s fingers curled around his biceps, close enough to hear his breathing, closer than they’ve ever been.

Greg can’t move for several breaths. Finally, he unwinds his frozen fingers, stepping back, apologising. He reassures Mycroft and they step outside into the blessedly cool night air. The wind swirls over his skin, bringing his focus sharper after the smoky room and alcohol have dampened his senses. He leans against the railing, relishing the quiet, the dark, the clear sky, the company.

They talk quietly about the neighbourhood; Greg is not surprised to hear most houses are unoccupied. His ability to feel out a neighbourhood has been honed over years of police work. He’s not surprised but can’t help comparing it to his own sad little flat. Greg can hear the apology in Mycroft’s voice at his own wealth, which is ridiculous. As if Greg couldn’t have figured that out for himself – he didn’t care. When he gets an out he takes it, making a joke, hoping Mycroft hears the sincerity behind it.

The sound of Mycroft laughing eased the tension, and Greg feels them sink another level into comfort. He’s never seen Mycroft so relaxed, unguarded. It’s wonderfully alluring and he’s feeling his self-control slip. Surely they can’t drink too much more – or smoke, for that matter. Greg can feel the rhythm of the evening moving towards the climax, the moment a decision must be made. He can see the relaxed lines of Mycroft’s body, leaning back over the railing and has to clench his fists not to slide sideways and cover the smiling mouth with his own.

At Mycroft’s suggestion they head back inside, a warm palm guiding him back towards the door. He stiffens before recognising it for what it is, relaxing into the touch, smiling to himself, almost proud of Mycroft’s courage. Perhaps they would cross that line tonight, after all.

The thought is still warm in his heart as Mycroft brings cigars and bottles to the table. Once again he demurely displays his knowledge, deferring to Greg to choose their liquor. By the time it’s poured and the cigars are lit, Greg is slumped on the sofa, legs turned towards Mycroft. He’s relaxed now, feeling the thrum between them, wondering if Mycroft can feel it pulse. The tension is far more delicious now that he knows what he knows. He’s opening his eyes occasionally, watching Mycroft’s long fingers roll his cigar, stroking the crystal of his tumbler. The secret glances feel almost voyeuristic.

From the looks he’s stealing in return, Mycroft knows something is going on. He knows Mycroft can see him peeking; it’s amusing to watch him shift a little every time Greg lets his eyes linger on various parts of his anatomy.

Now, though his eyes are closed as he relishes the anticipation building between them.

It takes him by surprise when Mycroft places his cigar down. His heart pounds – is this the moment? – but Mycroft explains, and it’s a legitimate cigar thing. Greg follows suit, but his heart is still pounding, and he can’t think of a single thing to say.

The evening is surely over. The silence is heavy with expectation, pressing on Greg. He can see that Mycroft can feel it too; his posture is changing, shoulders rounding as he curls in on himself. Mycroft’s face is changing, looking somewhere between desperate and resigned. Greg can’t bear it any more. Is his courage failing him? Greg can’t let it happen, can’t let the gentle moments of this evening all be for nothing. He has to ask, even though he doesn’t know if Mycroft will take the opportunity.

“Mycroft?” he asks, leaving his hand in the middle of the sofa. The gap feels like a chasm, and he knows he can’t cross it alone. He doesn’t know what to do. Should he say something? Do something? He’s waited so long for this chance, and the indecision is agonising. Mycroft’s eyes meet his, and they’re almost pleading with him. He swallows, but can’t bring himself to say anything more than,

“Thank you so much for this. I really enjoyed myself. You’re excellent company.”

Mycroft nods, and Greg’s heart thumps. Will he speak now? A nod, lips pursed together, anguish in his eyes.

Greg abandons his resolution to let Mycroft set the pace. He can’t leave it here, he just can’t…

“There’s something I wanted to ask you. Why did you invite me here, after all this time? Why not another dinner?” The questions sound pleading to him, but he can feel desperation rising in him. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if Mycroft denies this connection between them.

He watches like a hawk, concentrating on his breathing, each action like a time lapse frame.

Mycroft swallows.

Flexes his fingers.

Takes a deep breath, places his fingers over Greg’s hand.

His eyes rise to Greg’s. The glorious man takes a deep breath, and the familiar steel comes into his eyes just for a second.

His voice is quiet, a match for Greg’s in desperation. “I’m...oh god…Please don’t run away.”

Greg can’t imagine needing to leave, come hell or high water. His whole arm is tingling from the contact at his hand, his brain racing as he tries to predict what’s coming, what it means, if he’ll be doomed or elated.

“I’m terribly fond of you. Have been for a while. I thought if we weren’t in public…”

The broken words are like sunshine breaking through the clouds rapidly gathering in Greg’s mind. He grins, the wide smile of a man whose hopes have been realised.

Finally, he feels free do what he has wanted for so long, assuage a need now ramped up to fever pitch.

He kisses Mycroft. A careful chaste press of lips, but it lights his soul. A few words to reassure Mycroft, his breath still trembling, hand on Mycroft’s cheek, watching the wonder blossom in the grey eyes.

His name is on Mycroft’s lips, and then his world is overwhelmed by Mycroft – insistent tongue begging for entry to his mouth, fist pulling him closer, hand on the back of his head. The world tilts and he grabs at what he can find – which is fabric, smooth as it bunches in his fists. Mycroft steers and Greg finds himself on the couch with a lapful of eager body pressing him into the cushions, kissing him as though he is as desperate as Greg for this. So many years of liking him, then wondering, then accepting that he loved this quiet reserved man, and now Greg was sitting here having the life snogged out of him.

It is glorious, bliss, beyond his wildest dreams; Mycroft is passionate, uninhibited, a little desperate. It arouses Greg beyond endurance and they break off, breathing hard into the same air. Greg’s head is light, his pulse pounding Mycroft’s name through his body. Mycroft sits above him like a magnificent god, like glory incarnate, looking down on him as though he is worried Greg might evaporate at any moment. His eyes are unfocussed and Greg can’t wait another second.

“Mycroft. Fuck. Take me to bed. Please. I’ve been keeping myself from jumping you for hours.”

The plea seems to bring Mycroft back to his senses, because he drags Greg to his feet, clutching for a moment before leading them out of the room. Greg sees nothing, breathing hard, his cock straining against his pants as he stumbles after Mycroft. As they enter a bedroom Mycroft stops, and Greg doesn’t hesitate, locking his lips to the neck he’s been watching all night, arms wrapping around that trim waist.

The press of Mycroft’s arse back against him is glorious, and he speaks the words he’s been holding in all night.

“Please fuck me. I need you inside me.”

Mycroft spins around and Greg’s right there, pressing against him. Pleasure shoots through him, and things get a little fuzzy. He says something, hearing himself beg, feeling skin under his lips; Mycroft replies, and it’s obviously a yes because they’re stumbling toward the bed, falling over, stripping clothes off. Greg’s done, trousers and shirt and pants thrown wherever, but Mycroft is standing lost in thought; Greg’s fingers on his waistcoat bring him back and they strip him naked in record time.

Skin on skin, Greg chases Mycroft onto the bed, wrapping his hand around them, rutting hard, panting at the desire, the amazement bouncing around his head that he is here, in Mycroft’s bed, touching that skin, hearing him plead. Greg shapes a grin, manages to ask for lube; he’s actually surprised when Mycroft answers immediately.

They share a grin as he finds it, coats Mycroft’s cock, his own twitching in sympathy as he struggles to hold himself in check. Reality clicks in as he lowers himself over Mycroft, feeling the head of his cock press against his entrance. Before he can press down and feel the breach, Mycroft’s hand stops him and he can see the question.

“Don’t worry I love the stretch. I want to feel you. Just go slow.”

And he can’t wait another second, groaning aloud, arching his back and trying to count by nines to stop from coming immediately. He bears down, lowering himself, balancing himself on the edge of the pleasure-pain barrier. He wants to take it all; wants to feel as much of Mycroft as possible. He’s waited so long…finally, he feels himself rest on Mycroft’s hips, as full as he can be.

He should need a moment to adjust, to allow his body to settle, but Mycroft is gentle with him, and the brush of fingertips along his thighs pushes him over the edge. He gabbles an apology, an explanation as he starts moving, chasing, seeking the rhythm. Concentrating on himself, knowing Mycroft needs him too but unable to stop himself from moving, Greg is cursing, whispering, trying not to come.

“You’re beautiful.”

Mycroft’s words break through the cloud of arousal, startling him. His hips don’t stop, can’t stop; he’s almost sobbing as he leans down, pressing his forehead to Mycroft’s, trying to tell him how much this means, how long he’s yearned to be here in this moment.

It must have worked, because Mycroft starts meeting his thrusts, hitting his prostate on every single movement. More sounds break from his mouth, babbling, apologising, worshiping the man working so hard to help him find his release. He’s so close, and it’s right there; just a little more, a little more…Mycroft thrusts harder, holding him close, driving up into him.

The world reduces to the swirl of sensation.

Breathing hard.

Nails into soft skin.

Mycroft’s name like a prayer on his lips.

White heat exploding out of him, rippling through his body.

And then…nothing.

Silence.

Greg is still trembling, and as the ecstasy subsides, a terrible insecurity takes over. He kisses Mycroft, worshiping him as though this might be his last chance.

“Darling, are you alright?” Mycroft whispers, and the endearment breaks Greg.

“I love you, Mycroft. I’ve loved you for years. I never thought…oh god…I never thought you wanted me…could ever want someone like me. Please don’t send me away after this. Please don’t tell me this is a one-time thing.”

The words are mumbled into the pale skin at his lips. Greg knows he is pathetically desperate, but he needs to know, needs to be told yes or no…

“I love you too, Greg. I will never let you go.”

The words are above and beyond what he could ever have expected. The combination is too much – alcohol, emotions and relief reducing him to tears. As he sobs, strong arms hold him close, lips ghosting along his temple as they slowly abates, sleep sneaking in to claim him.

Greg sleeps soundly that first night, cradled in Mycroft’s arms, mind wiped clear of everything except the miraculous love he has been gifted.


End file.
